


If Things Were Perfect

by itsaquinnquinnsituation



Series: X Years Later [16]
Category: Newcastle (2008)
Genre: Canon Gay Character, Canon Gay Relationship, Gen, M/M, Routine Sketch, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-19 23:51:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3628854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsaquinnquinnsituation/pseuds/itsaquinnquinnsituation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>About eight and a half to nine years later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Things Were Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> None of the characters or the plot of the original movie belong to me. I am not making money off my work, which is written for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> This is my universe and exactly how I see it. Writing should be enjoyed, not judged.
> 
> First time for my first person shooter! I normally would not consider myself so perceptive and omniscient to think that I could know the intimate thoughts of my characters, but hey - I pretended I did, so I wrote it anyway. Some semi-plotless musings can never hurt, can they?
> 
> Thanks for the love, everyone. My love goes out to you, as well. 
> 
> Title from one of the most gorgeous musical compositions that I have ever heard in my life. By Moby from the album "Play."
> 
> I highly recommend everyone to watch this movie.

I'm driving up to our flat building just as the sun is preparing to safely settle in for the night. It's looking so magnificent in its fruit-cocktail reservoir of feather-light clouds that I have to slow down and really watch it. I can see out onto the vast expanse of the ocean in the distance, and the view is so tranquil and mesmerising that I get butterflies in my stomach. I feel as though I am one with this picturesque sky, as though our entities have fused; and the thought enthralls and overwhelms me.

I wonder if that's what being happy feels like.

You know what some people imagine happiness to be? Well, for one, there are the bottomliners with their “I like my job”, “I like my car”, “I like my house”, “I like my partner” platitudes… what else is new? If they like whatever they can lay their eye on, they feel happy, I guess. And then there are the ones who take the philosophical approach. “Happiness is freedom from all need and want.” Yeah, whatever. Admit it, if you were caught off guard by this question just now, you probably put it in your head very simply. Something like, “I would feel happy if things were perfect.” You probably didn’t even think of it in words, you just felt it. You felt it in your gut. Right?

But I wonder, how it really is - to have everything perfect. I mean, when I consider my job, for example, I cannot even begin to imagine what it would look like if it were perfect. No printer jams? No angry clients? The Powerpoint never crashes and the server never goes down? The boss showers me with respect and loads of bonus money? Alright, that’s great, but then… what’s the point? You see, some people like to take the easy road with their jobs. These people will only work if they have to. But, excuse my French there for a second, I kind of tend to think, this is bullshit. My job can feel like an Iron Man sometimes, but that’s why I love it. I like to see how much I can withstand. Call it an “old-man-and-the-sea complex” or whatever you want, but I love testing my limits. I thrive on it, really. And I hope that, incidentally, I may be doing some good for the world.

Now, my car? Ugh, no comment on that one. My car *is* perfect, actually. And I dare you to say otherwise. Observe it noiselessly glide into its parking spot and give out a melodious chirpy goodbye as it winks at me with its iridescent headlights, looking like a futuristic fly-ride in the golden rays of the setting star. It has a minor sticky left-turn signal problem, but you just try to hold it against it. I dare you. You just try.

As for my house… 'Eh,' - I think as I walk up the stairs to the front door, - 'it’s a compromise.' It’s actually a small flat, but the location is unbeatable. It’s three-fourth of the way to my work, one-fourth to Andy’s, and it’s still, at least in some sense, on the beach. But you know what that entails, though, right? Sand. Everywhere. Sand everywhere. All over the floor. On the sofa. In the bed even, sometimes. Andy doesn’t notice it, but I do. When I think of perfection as it applies to living quarters, I am pretty sure my definition involves complete absence of sand. And mosquitoes. And bursting sink pipes. And ant colonies! But we are dealing with that one. 

 

As I open the front door, I think of Andy. See, everyone around us calls us “the perfect couple.” Well, I guess we have been together much longer than anyone I know, except for my parents, perhaps, - but then, they can hardly be viewed as a proper couple. But are we really that perfect? Really? Is Andy perfect? 

If Andy were perfect then *that* – this huge red sports bag left right in the middle of the hallway and currently blocking my path as well as taking up the space where I usually place my dress shoes – surely wouldn’t be here. And the wet towel, which I bet you fifty Australian bucks, is at this very moment inside it, would be hanging on the clothesline outside. And Andy wouldn’t be eating those goddamned sunflower seeds in the living room. Because, let me tell ya, it’s one thing walking on sand with your bare feet, but it’s a whole another torture stepping on those little black bastards, or their shells, on the floor. Whoever came up with the idea that those things should be edible in the first place?

 

“Andy!”

“Yeah?” 

I don’t get a head turn because, by the looks of it, he’s engrossed in some sophisticated science magazine. Good luck tearing him away from that – must be one of those 'Fergs, let me just finish this page, ‘kay? Or else I will lose my spot…' types of deal. And, really, he *will* lose it, if I succeed. I always make damn sure of that.

“Come and put your surf stuff away! It’s strewn all over the floor!”

“Ungh-hum…. In a minute…” – small cracking sound ensues as another black seed loses its life. The article must be groundbreaking. 

“No, do it now!”

“Nmmhh!” - A groan as he looks at the page closely, hoping to store away a mental picture of which line he is on, and gets up. 

See, if Andy were perfect, this exchange would never have happened. Or the like of it, ever. It would always have been: “Yes, Fergs!”, “Sure, Fergs!”, “No problem, Fergs!”, “Right away, Fergs!”, and all our conversations would have come down to: “Totally, I completely agree with you!”, “One hundred percent there, man!”, and “Yeah, you’re right!” I mean, we would never disagree. We would never fight. We would understand each other as though through telepathy and always be on the same page, on every subject. But then… you wonder if we would ever talk. Why talk when you already know what the other is thinking? Why bother to discuss if you always agree? 

“Why’d you always have to leave your bag blocking the door? I mean, is there really no other place in the house for it?” – I inquire as he makes his way into the hall where I stand, having just closed the front door behind me, - “You know I can’t get my shoes dirty, and there’s wet sand everywhere now!”

“Ermm” – He’s come up to stand in front of me, but as he has his back to the light, I can only barely make out the sharp features of his face as he mentally sniffs out my mood. I see his eyes dart over my face, registering its affect, momentarily giving me a semi-discreet once over – hey, he’s only human, and I do hope I look good in my business suit – and return to lock on my eyes. His features relax as he tilts his head and allows his lips to stretch into a crooked half-smile, his face taking on an expression of that of an arrogant cat, disturbed from its lazy pre-sundown nap.

“Why’d you have to do this to me, Fergus?” – He asks just as slowly as his eyes once again begin scanning my face.

“Do what?” – I say, refusing to give in.

“This” – He motions vaguely between us, - “This. You know… All this.”

I raise my brow at him, and really stare now, not blinking. He has no escape, so he catches on.

“What *this*?” – I mimic his vague motion as he continues with his half-smile.

“Yeah, this” – he responds, - “This stuff. You know, I’m not perfect.”

“Well, that’s kind of why” – I explain to him, - “I think that’s just the quality of yours that I prefer most.” 

He looks at me for a moment, smiling even wider, then takes a step towards me, extending his hand out to grab onto the back of my neck. Only the surf bag is still on the floor, of course, so he trips over it, falling onto me, the momentum of his motion slamming me into the closed front door. 

Well, that’s just outrageous, of course! - ‘Oh no, you didn’t!’ - I love him and all, but this type of behaviour is just not acceptable! So I grab him by the shoulders, turn him, and slam *him* into the door instead.

He meows out a shriek of surprise or momentary pain, maybe, but then the only thing that prevents him from melting into a puddle of goo at my feet is that I have him pinned against the door as I kiss him. 

Yeah, you know how all these corner-kiosk paperback romance authors make their perfect fairy-tale kisses taste of strawberries and sunshine? Bullshit. How does sunshine taste, anyway? And can you really imagine kissing a guy like Andy and actually expect it to taste like berries or fruits unless both of you have been eating them recently? Really? No, Andy just tastes like salt. Most of the time. He smells like it, too. The smell is because of the ocean air, of course. We’re not at the Dead Sea, granted, but the air is still infused with those fresh invigorating notes. And that he tastes of it – well, I blame the sunflowers! I keep telling him that eating so much salt will lead to his ruin but my advice falls on deaf ears. And have I told you that I’m a bit of a hypocrite on that one? Salt has long since become my favourite taste and smell in the world. 

So yeah. I guess, neither Andy nor our kiss can fit the bill of being perfect. But the kiss especially, as Andy has to break it way too soon because he is laughing so much, he throws his head back against the door and is almost convulsing in my arms. So I let the giggles out as well as I bury my face in the crook of his neck, my nose tickled by his long sun-bleached hair. It’s nice and all, but it’s making me want to sneeze. 

So yeah. Everything is not perfect.

But guess what?

I still like it a lot. 

 

 

And P.S., what was all that shit about happiness as ‘freedom from want’? I could tell you several things I am wanting right now, but then I might blush so much that my face will become redder than that goddamned Nike sports bag that had caused this little scene in the first place. So, I think I’ll let you take a wild stab at that one. You can make all the conjectures you want. But rest assured, I am not free from want. 

 

And yet…

 

I am so fucking happy.


End file.
